Three hours, one hundred and eighty minutes, ten thousand and eight hundred seconds, and then I am there. I find loneliness, or familiarity, I sense coldness, or anticipation, I see hope, or regrets.
During the course of the journey, I often times dream, I listen to myself, and usually try to imagine with vivid images from my mind what would it be if… I had chosen different things.
There is nothing else I can do; I need to waste the time, with no more expectations than just keeping awake, alert and conscious.
I see the fields run vigorously in my eyes, giving me the perspective of being stationary in the quick vortex of my head, just when I feel I am getting lost and scared, the well defined chaos in which my ideas transform thanks to the mix of boredom, and tiredness take over, and just like that I hear myself.
I usually have music on, I pretend there’s nothing else to look forward than just the stories that are told by the sounds I hear. When the contemporary violins of “Bond” come in, I imagine it is me who plays energetically to the rhythm of the Romanian Rhapsody, and I have an audience who appreciates and admires with envy my unequivocal talent. Suddenly I have to join, and start singing the chorus of songs that I can’t even sing. If the music got muted, I would sound like a howling dog.
Then I start thinking too much… the one quality I can get to hate. I begin looking for answers to questions I shouldn’t be asking in the first place. I can sense that there’s nothing else in my spirit than the pure sensation of someone who looks at a plane go away with his desires inside, and he has been left behind.
I am here… present, going back and forward between my freedom and my jail. I can see and hate myself for hating. I punish my feelings, until I find self resignation.
I am here… left behind as I see the world turn and disappear right through the vision of my window.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Érase Una Vez…
We have heard the stories; those that once put us to sleep. No matter where the wind took our laughs, we all anticipated the moments in which our thoughts would be taken to fantastic lands, and in which our memories shaped the most innocent features that determined our cultural personalities.
For some, they started as a “Once Upon A Time…”, others heard an Irish toned “Fadó, fadó…”, or a harsh yet hopeful German sound of “Es war einmal…”, some others had a more romantic Italian “C’era una volta…” or a more pragmatic Greek "Mia forá ki énan kairó..."; but for me, it was a simple and warm “Érase Una Vez…”
These were the magic words to the hidden corners of my mind, in which I carefully placed my heroes, fantasies, fears and unattainable dreams.
We shared the fantastic memories of dragons, princesses, talking creatures, scary tiny heroes, and fearful villains, but in our own way, we made them ours, hoping they would come to the rescue when the right moment in our lives called for it.
Just as leaves do in late autumn, we flew away with the strong blow that just our imagination was able keep. Making up the faces, forests, castles and swords inside our heads, bringing them to life, letting them be.
Érase Una Vez the time in which we believed we could, in which there was more to a story than just the side we were told to listen; in which we cared for a cat wearing high boots, or in which we wanted to be a tiny mouse to be able to find the village where the gnomes lived.
Suddenly, I touched the old book, covered in dark hard leather with golden letters that smelled like time; slowly I felt its protuberant surface, thinking on the young minds that once, heard attentively the words that laid inside, latent, sleeping, but ready to come to life.
And lifting its heavy, front cover I saw, the first words that once upon a time, thrived my system and awoken my imagination “Érase Una Vez”; and the old smell of its pages combined with the washed illustrations on its counter-page set a smile on my face, that smile that I know was the exact same I had years before, printed in my childhood dreams.
SDIH
June 9 2008
For some, they started as a “Once Upon A Time…”, others heard an Irish toned “Fadó, fadó…”, or a harsh yet hopeful German sound of “Es war einmal…”, some others had a more romantic Italian “C’era una volta…” or a more pragmatic Greek "Mia forá ki énan kairó..."; but for me, it was a simple and warm “Érase Una Vez…”
These were the magic words to the hidden corners of my mind, in which I carefully placed my heroes, fantasies, fears and unattainable dreams.
We shared the fantastic memories of dragons, princesses, talking creatures, scary tiny heroes, and fearful villains, but in our own way, we made them ours, hoping they would come to the rescue when the right moment in our lives called for it.
Just as leaves do in late autumn, we flew away with the strong blow that just our imagination was able keep. Making up the faces, forests, castles and swords inside our heads, bringing them to life, letting them be.
Érase Una Vez the time in which we believed we could, in which there was more to a story than just the side we were told to listen; in which we cared for a cat wearing high boots, or in which we wanted to be a tiny mouse to be able to find the village where the gnomes lived.
Suddenly, I touched the old book, covered in dark hard leather with golden letters that smelled like time; slowly I felt its protuberant surface, thinking on the young minds that once, heard attentively the words that laid inside, latent, sleeping, but ready to come to life.
And lifting its heavy, front cover I saw, the first words that once upon a time, thrived my system and awoken my imagination “Érase Una Vez”; and the old smell of its pages combined with the washed illustrations on its counter-page set a smile on my face, that smile that I know was the exact same I had years before, printed in my childhood dreams.
SDIH
June 9 2008
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